


Bones

by Miracule



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A bit of giving up, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And then a bit of getting back up again, Angst, But not really. Just erring on the side of caution., Dissociation, Gen, Jim does something stupid. McCoy gets it, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, Jim's already three drinks in, and when you’re three drinks in, you go big or you go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bones

**Author's Note:**

> I made up everything about Jim's living situation at the Academy. If it's all wrong, let me know. Also, I wasn't sure how many drinks it would take to down Jim Kirk. I winged it and gave him a limit of two more than myself. Let's just say he hasn't eaten all day.

James Tiberius Kirk can hold his fucking liquor.

Maybe it isn’t exactly something to be proud of, but he doesn’t have much to his name, and his stepdad always upheld that drinking somebody—or himself, in this case—under the table is nothing to sneeze at. It’s funny how he remembers _those_ lessons. The ones that are stupid and wrong and _definitely_ not good.

Yeah. These are the lessons that lead to headaches and severe gastrointestinal distress and probably some degree of liver damage.

But now? Well, he’s already three drinks in, and when you’re three drinks in, you go big or you go home.

At least... he _thinks_ it’s been three. He’s been a little liberal with his pours.

 _It’s fine, though, because_ , “it’s fun!” he says—or yells—to nobody in particular. His voice bounces awkwardly off the walls of his quarters and he winces.

 _I’m not drunk because I could tell that was too loud_. _That’s how it works, right?_

He laughs at himself and the sound crackles pleasantly in his chest.

 

                     

Four drinks is a lot.

Well, not necessarily a lot if you’re trying to get black-out drunk, but four isn’t really... normal. Jim knows this. He wonders dreamily if four is too much, even as he raises the glass to his lips.

Four is too much, he decides. Four is like... sad. But he _is_ sad.

It doesn’t burn anymore, at least. It stopped burning halfway through three.

He walks toward the bathroom, stumbling over a pile of books in the process. Annoyed, he kicks them under the sofa.  _God_ , it’s dark.

The bathroom lights hum at his arrival.  _God_ , that’s bright.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror. Oh, _hell no_. He looks ugly; dried out. His eyes don’t look like his eyes anymore; were they always that color? He takes a breath. Yeah, he figures they were. _Jesus, nobody should have to witness this. Nobody should have to look at you._

“Hear that?” he tells his reflection. “That means you, dickhead.”

He affects a captainly voice. “Set phasers to kill, Mr. Kirk. Pull that trigger, son.”

He laughs again. It sounds distinctly girlish to him—a little trill of a sound. He bites his lips to make them pink and pouts at his reflection. He’d like to be a girl. Girls are smart. And he’s an idiot for drinking this much.

He groans and smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand. Nothing happens. He’s still drunk.

 _Jesus, put me out of my_...

A thought occurs to him.

_Foster._

What about Foster? _Foster is fucking annoying_. No, that isn’t it. _Foster is gonna kill me_. That’s more like it.

“Foster is gonna think you’re crazy,” he tells Mirror Jim.

“So what? It’s fucking true,” he retorts. “And who gives a shit what he thinks.”

Still, when he squints at the watch on his wrist and sees that it’s almost... _late_ , Jim decides to make the party invite-only.

He collects the vodka from the living room and walks mindfully toward his bedroom.

He and Foster don’t share a sleeping space, thank god... Not like some other cadets who drew the short straw in the housing lottery. Jim doesn’t care much for the guy. He’s too straight-laced; too anxious. Worse than that, he’s snide and preachy and generally all-around everything that Jim hates.

He plops himself down on the bed with a groan.

_Stop now. Before it’s too late._

He’s _really_ not feeling well. Then again, he could feel worse. He knows that it’s totally possible to sink lower, and the thought intrigues him. “All-righty, here we go,” he sighs. “Fuck it all.”

 

 

Or not. As it turns out, five drinks is like... a bad idea. It’s not a good thing. 

Objects have stopped feeling real. Time has slowed. 

“Okay,” he begs nobody in particular, suddenly very aware of how _fucked_ he is. “I get it. I get it. Just stop.”

He panics a little when his voice—muffled and indistinct—sounds alien to him. He pinches the fat around his stomach and hardly feels the pain.

 _Yikes_.

A single, crystalline thought burrows through the fog.

_It’s gonna get worse._

And it does. As if on cue, his stomach churns.

 

 

The next thing he knows, he’s kneeling on the floor of the bathroom and his legs are going numb. More so than the rest of him. And he’s puking. _Yep. That’s definitely what that is._ It doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does. Is this what dying feels like? Has he finally done himself in?

_Okay, but like... Would that really be so bad?_

He decides that no, it wouldn’t. Dying sounds all right to Jim.

 

 

“...Yeah, he’s throwing up. He really doesn’t look good. He’s _white_ , Len. I know, I know. Please.”

_Foster’s here? Since when?_

Jim chokes a little and Foster swears up a storm behind him. “Just hang on, okay, Kirk? You’ll be fine.”

 _That’s kinda nice of him to say._ He decides that Foster isn’t so bad anymore.

Jim’s focused on wiping spit from his mouth when the door whooshes and somebody else squeezes into their humble lavatory. Jim knows this because he can see _two_ pairs of legs now. He wonders vaguely if Foster’s called a medic on him. Pike’s gonna have a fucking conniption if he gets admitted for alcohol poisoning or some shit.

“Jesus, kid." 

Oh.

He knows that voice.

Not very well, mind you, but in some capacity. It belongs to the aviophobic doctor—McCoy. They’ve seen each other around since meeting on the shuttle, but they never really exchange more than small talk. McCoy always seems mad; like he’s fed up with the world around him. Jim thinks he's a bit of a downer, to be honest. 

Now, he can hear Foster and McCoy exchanging low, muddled words, and it makes him anxious. 

“Are you guys... talking about me?” he croaks, trying hard to catch his breath. He wants to look at the two men standing beside him, but the room is _literally_ spinning. _It’s moving; there’s no fucking way that the room isn’t moving right now._

McCoy—he thinks it’s McCoy, anyway—takes him firmly by the arm.

“Jim, right?” _Yeah, that’s McCoy._

“Uh-huh. Hey, can you... not?”

McCoy doesn't answer. His eyes are on the tricorder in his hands. 

"Hey..."

“Look at me for a sec, kid.” 

But Jim doesn’t have to. McCoy’s hand is already holding his jaw and angling his head toward the ceiling. It’s a gentle maneuver, but it feels like something cracks in Jim's chest—like the splintering of firewood.

 

 

It’s not until McCoy is muttering, “all right, kid, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” that Jim realizes he’s yanked his arm out of the doctor’s grip and jerked his head back so hard that he thinks he might've injured himself. 

McCoy turns toward Foster. “I’m not taking him in. It ain’t worth it. His BAC’s a little high, but it’s not in the red. He’s been awake the whole time?”

Foster mutters something in reply.

“Yeah, I thought so. I’m afraid there ain’t much to do. It’s scary but this ain’t gonna kill him.”

 _Damn_.

“Sorry,” says Jim, a little behind in the conversation.

McCoy is looking at him again. Jim can see that he’s frowning but the doctor’s voice is soft when he asks, “What for?”

“You scared me.”  

“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll go slower next time.” There's a note of guilt in there. _Weird_. 

Jim scratches at the nape of his neck. “I don’t really like people touching me,” he explains, as if McCoy is remotely interested in the minutiae of his mental health. _Shit, Jim. Keep a lid on it._ _He doesn’t need to know how fucked you are._

If McCoy is bothered by Jim’s candidness, he doesn’t show it. “I understand, kid. I'll go slow.”

Jim knows that the doctor’s crooked smile is _meant_ to be reassuring, but hell, it gets the job done. He feels the tension ease from his shoulders.

“D’you think... Can you make it stop?”

McCoy glances at his tricorder again and shakes his head. “I can’t do much for ya, Jim. This is the kinda thing you gotta ride out. The most I can do is a supplement; essential vitamins and what-have-you. You’re in the clear, but...”

Jim is only half-listening. Most of his energy has already been spent by speaking and suppressing his gag reflex. When that finally fails, he hears Foster make a noise and flee the room. McCoy, still hovering close, heaves a sigh.

“I’m gonna give you that hypo, okay?”

Jim nods. _Vitamins and minerals._ That shouldn’t hurt.

Well, it hurts like a shot hurts, but it doesn’t make his throat swell.  

McCoy’s hand lingers at his shoulder and rubs a few circles into his upper back. "You okay?"

Jim nods.

“So,” the doctor continues, conversationally, “ _this_ is what you’ve been up to since we met.”

Actually, McCoy’s bedside manner sucks.

 _Pretty much, Leonard, pretty much._ God, that’s an ugly name. No wonder McCoy doesn't use it. Jim decides that he’ll come up with a better one later.

“Kinda,” he finally admits.

“You wanna tell me why?”

Jim snorts. “No.”

“You know... I’ve done this a few more times than I’d care to admit. If you want to talk about anything at all...”

 _Huh_. Jim reconsiders. “Maybe.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” McCoy repeats, and Jim wonders if he’s annoyed. But his tone is thoughtful when he says, “that’s good enough for me. _Maybe_ we can meet for coffee tomorrow; how’s that sound? I can give you something for the nausea then. If you still need it.”

Jim isn’t sure how to cope with that sort of offer. He isn’t even sure that this is really happening. But for now...

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Coffee. No beer.”

 

x

**Author's Note:**

> As always, drag me in the comments! Also rec me all your best Jim/Bones angsty fics.


End file.
